Poems tagged ‘Football’
Soccer Aid
It’s time to think of
The children of the world
For it is they who are
The foundation stone
Of human existence
In their hands we trust
The Beautiful Game
Tonight we think of those
Suffering the horrendous
Diseases and crippling
Disabilities of the unfortunate
Misfortune greets their staring
Pleading eyes
Bodies wasted by the
Cruelty of neglect
Malnutrition and starvation
Tearing through hungry minds
Oh, how distressing to we
Who live in the privileged world
Of hedonistic luxury
Who can only look on in agonised
Dumbfounded silence
Soccer Aid,
Let it be repeated
Over and over again
Football must extend the hand
Of unconditional love,
Healing hands
Kindness and consideration
For those with nothing
Nothing to look forward to
Helping profusely those
For whom breakfast, lunch
Tea and supper
Are just alien concepts
They are the ones who
Can only dream of our
Daily normalities
Of enjoying the joyous
Thrills of five a sides
On the parks
And Power Leagues of
British kick offs,
Free kicks, corners
And goals galore
In the back of the net
That lovely onion bag
But for those who
Continue to be so horribly
Deprived of centre circles
And running rampant down
Touchlines on wide, inviting
Wings where doves still fly
But we must think of the children,
The kids who just want to strike
Spectacular volleys from the
Half way line
Let them roam free
Playing their game
With beaming smiles
As expansive as the one touch
Game, we’ve always advocated
For tonight Robbie Williams,
Lee Mack and celebrities from
Football’s benevolent hearts of gold
Will be playing for the
Precious cradle of youth
Who may never know the meaning
Of eternal happiness and freedom
But we have to extend the warm
Embrace of optimism to
Our next generation, certainly
The present day
For football is their
Universal language, our
Spoken words of passion
Dominant conversations
In every pub, shop, village,
Town and city
Of course children are our future
Let the charitable face of UNICEF
Spotlight their woes and travails
Bless them for ever
With the heartiest of good health
They too can be the next M’Bappe,
Neymar, even the remarkable Christian
Ronaldo, a world class
Footballing intellect
But first and foremost
And above all
Let the kids with
Little and pitiful
Strike out and venture into
Their Bernabeu, Nou Camp,
Maracana, Anfield and the Emirates
Waking from troubled beds
And striding confidently
Towards food and drink
Into welcoming stomachs
And play football into the
Fading darkness of twilit stages
Running into space
Leaving the past behind them,
Passing as if by memory
Let the children who express
Simple desires
Just smile and laugh
Incessantly, just score
Goals for pleasure and fun
Care unquestioningly
For their welfare
So let’s celebrate Soccer Aid
Today, tomorrow and for ever more
Sir David Beckham
So arise Sir David Beckham
Now entitled to admission
To the Garrick gentleman’s club
Pour that man a brandy
A Havana cigar of the finest tobacco
Now officer class
The highest of accolades
Yesterday our great British monarch
Becks rubs shoulders with kings
King Charles The Third
Shares pleasantries
With the modest lad from Leytonstone
Hackney Marshes finest
Now accorded seniority status
A knight of the realm
Chivalrous soul
From the days of medieval age
Lords and ladies
Please address this
Gentleman of importance
With a deferential bow
No longer just Becks
Formerly of Manchester United
Sir Alex’s carefully nurtured
From the Old Trafford dream
Factory, where once Giggs, Butt
And Scholes plied their trade
When Premier League titles were
Won with eyes closed
It’s Sir David Beckham
The Right Honourable one
From London’s East End
A man of upper class distinction
It’s Sir if you please
Remember who you’re talking to
Now Sir David formerly of Real Madrid
Will be sharing glittering dinner parties
With presidents and Prime Ministers
No doubt clinking glasses
With the noblesse oblige
Champagne for breakfast
Lunch and tea
Fraternising of course
With titled princes and princesses
Sleeping in affluent
Four poster beds
Silk sheets
And gold brocade
Would Sir like pate and
Foie gras
For breakfast?
Perhaps an audience
At Windsor or
Buckingham Palace
Caviar and smoked salmon
For lunch
A neatly ironed copy
Of the FT
We gather sir
Would like the best seat
At Ascot?
Top hat and tails
Of course
Next to Charles and Camilla
Oh and of course Lady Victoria
Would prefer the
Poshest of company
Now on first name terms
With Kate and William
Please curtsy before
Posh spice
It’s only right and proper
Admire her ladyship’s tiaras
While Sir David
Entertains dukes
From stately piles
Of Persian rugs
Would Sir David
Prefer ginseng or Earl Grey
Tea in the banqueting hall?
Maybe a game of croquet
Or a summer afternoon of Polo
Only the best for Becks
Lordly lawns
Sir David is cordially invited
To the ambassador’s residence
For bridge or baccarat
Be sure of the red carpet treatment
Sir David Beckham
Your yacht awaits
Next to the country mansion
Many a gravelled driveway
With Rolls Royces and Bentleys
By the hundred
Sprawling acres of green affluence
Vast gardens of
Riotous roses of red and yellow
The shrewdest of shrubberies
Sir David, you’ve fallen
On your feet
And landed in the gentry
But still admirably grounded
No airs or graces
It may be a long way
From Leytonstone
But Sir David Beckham
Down to earth
Always patriotic England
Leading from the front
A national treasure
For any occasion
Sixty Second Minute
With sixty-two minutes played
at a rancid, rainy Selhurst Park,
two photographs appear
on the jumbo screen, floating
over the on-pitch preparations
to take a disputed penalty.
Matthew Higgins and Mick Lloyd
sixty-two years of age
eternal supporters, fathers,
stalwarts, drivers and friends,
give us a mirrored reminder
of well lived lives played out
with more than nil-nil intent.
A minute of gentle clapping
rises in kind acknowledgment
of their coincidental death,
while on the pitch,
the bickering football match
continues oblivious and intense.
The whistle blows, and the ball
stumbles towards a Palace post.
The penalty kiss and miss
takes the crowd by surprise
enough to break the reverential bliss.
Claps turn to jeers and boos.
A lifetime chance squandered,
life come breaking in, as usual,
leaves us with the ‘if onlys’ to ponder.
Happy New Year.
Happy New Year football
Best wishes Premier League
Like one continuous sequence
Of festive frivolity
Seemingly 365 days of the year
Raucous repetition
Over and over again
Throughout the dazzling illumination
Of Regent and Oxford Street lights
The glittering tinsel and bobbing baubles
A permanent Boxing Day fixture
This constant bombardment of one
Game after another
Football on our guilty conscience
When the kids are crying out for
Yet more presents
This incessant indigestion
A bloated diet of Arsenal,
Liverpool, Chelsea, and,
Astonishingly, Forest flashing
On our radar
At the top of the Premier League
Business as usual
And business class
Economy suite
Liverpool leading the pack
A throwback to days of yore
When Bill, Bob, Ronnie and Joe,
Messrs Shankly, Paisley, Moran and Fagan
Dictated the tempo and
Dominated the game in vivid shades
Of pure red, scarlet or magenta
Painting Merseyside red
Decade after decade
Of ruddy complexioned beauty
During those vivacious and vibrant
Years of 1960s and 70s ownership
Throughout absolute domination
Now the Anfield masses
On the Kop roar again
For Arne Slot, a Dutchman
Inheriting the mantra of
Total Football
It’s a genetic thing
You know
Salah, Gakpo, Van Dijk,
Robertson, Arnold
Ripping it up
Six at Spurs, five
At the claret and blue Hammers
Is there no stopping this
Red runaway train?
Arsenal, Forest and Chelsea
On Liverpool’s coat tails
Clinging desperately onto their hood,
Pockets of defiance
Anything that gives them hope
But here we are
At the half way point
Of the season
City are in no man’s land
Alien territory
For Pep, no fifth
Premier League title for him
Or so it would seem
Just out of contention
Nowhere to be seen
Almost a pathetic shadow
Of their former selves
Even noisy neighbours
United look like sick patients
In Accident and Emergency
Manchester United relegation material
Unthinkable, surely sacrilege
It must never be allowed to happen
Particularly after that famous day
At Old Trafford when the Law man
Denis back heeled his old muckers
United into the old Second Division
It’s the second half of the
Premier League
A quarter of the way
Into the new century
It’s anybody’s guess
Happy Birthday Match of the Day
Happy Birthday Match of the Day
60 years old today, hey
And there we were thinking
That you were only 59
Where have the years
And decades gone
Since you arrived in
The world of
Harold Wilson’s
White Heat of Technology?
Swinging London
Possibilities and
Potentialities
Everything had life
Colourful vibrancy
London’s finest feelings
Everything rocked
Everybody danced
In Trafalgar Square
Fountains of any age
When Bobby and Nobby
Brought home the 1966 World Cup
To our doorstep, our village
Our city, the sprawling, stretching
Metropolis and then nationwide
Then, suddenly as if by magic
Match of the Day
Arrived, a bonny, bouncing baby
Healthy, screaming with joy
On that distant day, Kenneth Wolstenholme
From a fledgling BBC 2
Also in its infancy
Made that momentous introduction
Welcome to Beatleville
She loves you, yeah yeah
We came to idolise and worship
Match of the Day
Every Saturday
Initially at tea time
Just as dad threw his cap,
Scarf and rosette
Onto the rosewood dining table
Pools coupon tucked away
Discreetly but excitedly
Dad loosened his braces
Dug ravenously into his
Egg and chips feast
Match of the Day
He cried as if just
Promoted at work
With just a couple of shillings
More in his wage packet
Dad just had to be home
For black and white
Highlights of the big matches
Little cameos and snapshots
Of Saturday’s sweetest
Fragrances, burgers all around
On heaving, sweating terraces
Put the kettle on love,
It’ll be on shortly
Football as you’ve never seen it before
Football on the telly,
Said the doting husband
To his shocked wife
Not again she groans
With doleful despair
But it’s Match of the Day
From Anfield
Liverpool against Arsenal
Pass the ketchup, love
Before the opening credits
Of men in thick raincoats
Women with hair curlers
Large gatherings of football’s
Working class solidarity
Men with chiselled faces
Straight from the factory
Milling around Victorian turnstiles
Bobble hats perched strategically
On perfectly combed hair
Some in workaday suits, shirts
And ties
Must look good for
Match of the Day
Football from Highbury,
White Hart Lane, Anfield,
Old Trafford, Stamford Bridge
When Chopper Harris was but a boy
Giles, Lorimer,
Tambling, Venables,
Law, Best and Charlton
United’s Holy Trinity
White, Dyson and, Peter Thompson
On his debut Match of the Day,
Ian Callaghan, Roger Hunt
All par excellence
Football’s master crafstmen
In 1964, it was a revelation
A novelty, rather like
That treasured
Porcelain ornament
On our mantelpiece
But to this day
It still chants
That lovely old signature tune
In our head
That refuses to go away
Firstly reminiscent of
A wartime ditty
From our local brass band
But now associated
In the mind’s eye
With Jimmy Hill’s face
And a thousand cardboard
Cut out images
More extended highlights
Of the game’s spectacular
Moments to digest and drink in
First the late and deeply missed
John Motson, who just adored
The factual and obvious
Barry Davies, perfectly eloquent
Short, succinct, economical
With every word, sentences
Weighed carefully and lovingly
Jimmy Hill presiding like
A Roman emperor
Beard bristling with wisdom
Today Match of the Day
It’s your 6Oth birthday
Don’t forget the candles and cake
The drinks are on us
Saturday nights
Would never seem
The same, without you.
It was 5O years ago
It was 50 years ago tomorrow
A half century ago
How time flies
On the wings of the old Wembley
Where Billy Bremner and Kevin Keegan
Donned welterweight gloves
And yet they were
Far from the stereotype
Of flying wingers
Nothing could have been further
From the truth
More explosive fireworks
Than old football chums
From way back when
It was the Charity Shield
Or perhaps the combustible Shield
Little in the way of
Generous hearts
Or even a whisper of benevolence
More like scrapping children
With scruffy shirts
School ties like bandanas
Snotty faced nine year old
Rascals and scoundrels
Who should have known better
But none of us really cared
Since charity
We volunteered and
Kindly donated
To our Oxfam friends
So back in 1974
Leeds and Liverpool
Pennine neighbours
But childish altercations
On the day
Handbags and flailing fists
It was 1-1
But this one was far from
Amiable, this one meant war
Tackles were flying in like
Spitfires from a military sky
Bremner, all Scottish
Grudges to settle
Fired up and ready to
Launch haymakers and upper cuts
And hooks of seething savagery
To Keegan, a pocket battleship
Ready to wear his heart on his sleeve
On the verge of England recognition
Power and lethal finishing touches
Goals like water from
A gushing reservoir
The man who became a Liverpool legend
Before Germany and Hamburg came
Calling louder and louder
Suddenly, Bremner and Keegan
Locked in a vice of hatred
And roaring recrimination
Come on Billy, Kevin
Let’s settle this one
Behind the bike sheds
No charity in the Charity Shield
That belongs at home
But 50 years later
It’s the Community Shield
Now that has a far homely ring
This one belongs
To your village post office
The church bazaar
The local supermarket on the
Corner of your road
Your pub games of
General knowledge quizzes
Shove ha’penny and dominoes
In snug corners
Money raised for your
Neighbourhood hospital
Or Victorian school
Marathons on behalf of
Those less fortunate
Yes, the Community Shield
The connotations are similar
And the sentiments are much the same
But don’t mention the
Charity Shield to Liverpool’s KK
Because he’ll just whip
Off that unforgettable red shirt
From the land of Scouse matiness
And storm back to the tunnel
Off you go Kevin
But fear not since
It was just the Charity Shield
The curtain raiser to
Another season
But those fleeting fisticuffs
With Billy Bremner
Freckles on late summer chest
Wild as Bill Hickock
The gun slinger from Elland Road
No malice or harm intended
Of course not
But burning rage
Flaring from smoking ears
As the bell went for
The end of round one
Nobody wins
On Sunday though
Manchester giants
City and United
Gathering their
Derby needle
Animosity unconfined
Tomorrow it’s the
Community Shield
It’s just for fun
Remember
It’s a reminder
Of Premier League
Autumnal beginnings
Before August
Becomes next May
And winners are
Declared
On that far off day
Football’s coming home…
In 66 we won the cup,
The football world was shaken up.
But since then, it seems, we’ve had a curse,
Our football luck’s been quite perverse.
In 1970, we gave it a try,
But in the quarter-finals waved goodbye.
In 86, Maradona’s ‘hand of god’,
Won the quarter-final for the cheating sod.
Italia 90 brought semi-final pain,
Gazza’s tears like pouring rain.
2002, the quarter-finals brought no joy,
Beaten by Brazil’s samba boys.
2006, another quarter-final curse,
Every time it feels much worse.
2018 saw a semi-final try,
But Croatia’s win saw our dreams die.
In 22, expectations high for Southgate’s men,
But the quarter-final jinx struck again.
Our Euro hopes, they’ve been much the same,
Quarters and semis, usually end the game.
In 68, we reached the last four,
In 96, lost a semi-final once more.
2004 and 12, quarter-finals brought yet more pain,
Our poor supporters left to groan again.
In the 21 final we faced Italy’s blues,
Penalties again, of course we’d lose.
It’s now fifty-eight years of hurt.
For those three lions on the shirt,
But let’s leave all our tears in the past,
Football’s coming home, at last!
Cesar Luis Menotti- a tribute
Cesar Luis Menotti
Face like a tombstone
With inscriptions of
Pain, hurt, almost
Rejection
Carved with the first
Bold letterings of despair
Never really understood
Today we mourn his death
A man eaten up
By football’s eternal
Anxieties
Those curling tendrils
Of cigarette smoke
Swirling around him
Like a wintry fog
Melancholy Menotti
Trapped in a world
Of loneliness
And contemplation
Defined in 1978
By that sullen
Sulking snarl
But why
Since 1978
Was his year
Relishable,
Sweet as a
Chocolate eclair
Oozing with cream
Or the typical
Black Forest gateau
Of that time
Menotti, sunken cheeks
Swallowed up by the
Private tortures
Argentina
His Argentina
Did what Buenos Aires
And the sweeping pampas
Demanded of him
Hailed as Cesar
By an adoring Cordoba
And Rosario
Argentina amidst
A blizzard of confetti
And ticker tape of sheer
Elation that wrapped itself
Comfortingly around Menotti
Who rose above the wars
Militia and military
Around him
Held aloft the World Cup
Of 1978
Menotti beside himself
With a repressed joy
At first
But then persuaded
That chain smoking
Would benefit nobody
When Ossie and Ricky
Conjured images of
The Bossa Nova movements
Tantalising Tango
Stylistically perfect
And yet Cesar
Simply sat there
Vanishing in the
Nicotine Nirvana
Menotti misery guts
Nobody would ever
Know why that
Had to be the case
Smoke to his hearts content
Huge grey curtains
Never really revealing
His inner frustrations
As the World Cup of 1978
Unfolded
White fingers of smoke
Gripping Menotti, hiding
Itself in the corners
Of his mind
Fear not Cesar
Your day of World Cup
Victory, congratulations
To that Latin temperament
Which would be his fate
Oh doomed Netherlands
Would be overwhelmed
In World Cup Final
Tragedy of two successive
Defeats during the 1970s
A pity and somehow unfair
Cesar Luis Menotti
For he it was who
Waved the baton
In the dark depths
Of his deeply thoughtful
Dug out
Tormented with guilt
None knew why
Troubled with
With mysterious
Misgivings
He would never tell
Us why
But then Menotti
May well have kicked
The Benson and Hedges
Addiction into the
Long grass
Or maybe not
When his captain
Daniel Passarella
Appointed Argentina
World Champions
For 1978 read the present day
Still owners of
The Jules Rimet Cup
Klopp’s Liverpool held by happy Hammers
So there you were on the brink
Of adolescence
Voice finally broken
Hormones in disarray
Struggling with the
Realisation that school
Had offered nothing
Of any note or substance
It was the last game
Of the season
At the Boleyn Ground
Liverpool about to
Be crowned in the
Footballing throne room
Of the old First Division
Down for the day
From loquacious Liverpool
Genetically humorous
Ever since the day
Jimmy Tarbuck met Cilla
On the seething and heaving
Kop where the song wordsmiths
Once swapped pleasantries
With the Fab Four
But then on the last game
Of the League season
In 1978
The Merseyside choir ensemble
Converged on the Smoke
Those Southerners will never
Win anything
They sniffed disdainfully
And they were right
Keegan and Toshack saw to that
While Tommy Smith, Ian Callaghan,
Phil Thompson, tall and
Impassable, Chris Lawler
Just everywhere
What a team
Gold standard bearers
Of the Liver Birds
Crest, trumpeting their
Attacking excellence
And simple, expansive
One touch football
That left the claret and blues
From East London
Gripped with paranoia
Why did it have to be them?
It had to be Liverpool
They must have muttered
Then the final whistle went
And the Hammers were relegated
For the first time in 20 years
Desperately, pitifully and soberingly
By now John Lyall’s Stratford army
Had mobilised his troops
Settling his feet at the
The table of the Upton Park
Academy, always listening,
Learning and studying
The West Ham way
Crisp, laconic, free flowing
Football towards my South Bank
Residence, pleasure
To watch the embryo
That always promised
Then delivered
My old school friends though
Have also moved on
We’ve touched base since
In one of those splendid reunions
But yesterday they were elsewhere
Probably chewing the cud
About football never losing its romance
Yesterday the Hammers eke out a 2-2 draw
Against Liverpool
Europe probably gone now
But how we’ve soaked up the delights
Of Prague last June
The fruits of
Always epic labours
Back then to late Saturday games
And Sunday lunchtimes if the FA
Insist, they surely will
Next season
Perhaps a blessing in relief
Since Thursday and Sunday
Football always seemed unusual
As incongruous as a roast
On a Saturday evening
No complaints about the season
Though, Top 10
In the Premier League
Modesty prevailed
No trophies this time
Just the knowledge
That we were there
Joe Kinnear- a tribute
Joe Kinnear always in the know
Farewell to the show
To the football pitch
Never kitsch
Joe Kinnear
Where the White Hart Lane
Purists were in mutual appreciation
Of his valuable sense of
Morality which always seemed to
Be the agenda of the day
Joe was always there
Impassable and impenetrable
Safe as the houses
Along the Seven Sisters Road
As reliable as the kettle
That so frequently boiled
Every morning
Where men in training bibs
And tracksuits heavy with
Testosterone and hard graft
The sweat of today, tomorrow
Future generations
Yet to be witnessed
Were permanently infatuated
With that medicine ball
From yesteryear
That almost broke
Your school boots
Like kicking dynamite
But Joe of course
Basked brightly in
The ebb and flow, a paragon of virtue
To those who cared with
Compassion when the chips
Were down for Spurs
A rounded character
Decent geezer in
A dressing room of
Gin and tonic
That restorative boost
To demoralised spirits
Joe brought certainty
Wherever he went
Always there in the
Background noise
Assurance personified
Never flustered
Just business like
Hard but flair and fair
When John Pratt
Mopped up the wreckage
And then
Steve Perryman
Was still refining his craft
Joe brought a glow
To the tools of his trade
Self made, his own person
And then the playtime
Of his well rewarded career
Faded into the woodwork of
Those noisy tunnels
From whence Joe emerged
With the distinction of
A Saturday lord of his manor
His manor, his chivalrous domain
Guarding his front door
With lock and key
Never moved from his spot
Spurs through and through
Manager of Wimbledon
But never common
A don amongst dons
Suitably qualified for
That much maligned job
Since nobody ever seemed
To have time for
For those who once
Stood at Plough Lane
But Joe Kinnear
Football will of course
Will miss you
Unquestioningly so
Rest in peace Joe Kinnear
About This Site
Welcome to Football Poets -- a club for all football poets, lovers of football and lovers of (alternative) poetry. Discover poets in every league from respected internationals at the top of their game to young hopefuls in the school playground.
Publish your football poems here and then discuss them with your team mates and fans. We're archived by The British Library, so your masterpieces are in the safe hands of a world-class keeper. What a result!
My Account
Latest Poems
Gacina Bozidar
15th June 2025
joe morris
15th June 2025
Stuart Butler
13th June 2025
Alex Saynor
13th June 2025
John Gilbert Ellis
7th June 2025
joe morris
7th June 2025
Denys E. W. Jones
31st May 2025
joe morris
31st May 2025
Clik The Mouse
30th May 2025
Clik The Mouse
28th May 2025
Crispin’s Corner
In Memoriam
Kick It Out & Christmas Truce
Latest Comments
7th June 2025 at 5:57 pm
Very well put! My recent favourite came when visiting Chesterfield. They have the ‘LMD Vacuum Excavation Stand’.
May be if you’re in the vacuum excavation business, it’s a beautiful sounding name.
See in context
24th May 2025 at 7:19 am
Hi Steve
I’ve come across you before on the live poetry circuit…something I’ve also been involved in since the late 90s at slams, gigs and festivals. Did you ever get to Glasto?
I was also at Swindon when José subbed and berated Kevin in a League Cup game for Chelsea….
Salah as you point out went the same way…
Be interesting to see Kev’s next move?
Best
Crispin
See in context
24th April 2025 at 1:05 pm
Hey Denys..love this
“You may be a miner working down a pit.
You may be a rock star playing sold out gigs.
You may be a fireman putting out a blaze.
You may be an inmate chalking off the days. ”
Not just Dylan but maybe an unintentional nod to and shades of Ian Dury’s enigmatic ‘What A Waste’ rhythmic scanning..eg:
I could be the driver in an articulated lorry
I could be a poet I wouldn’t need to worry
I could be a teacher in a classroom full of scholars
I could be the sergeant in a squadron full of wallahs
What a waste
What a waste
Was lucky enough to meet and interview him twice.
Best wishes from Forest Green to Genoa C
See in context
8th March 2025 at 2:34 pm
Thanks Crispin
I’ve been to FGR a couple of times in the past – great food! Barnet look like they have the NL sewn up for this season, but I wish you well for promotion next season.
Regards, Beth
See in context
11th January 2025 at 8:13 am
TO ADD THIS TO THIS POEM’S COMMENT:WELCOME BACK DAVID MOYES!!!
See in context
27th November 2024 at 5:55 am
‘You’re Supposed To Be At Home’ is an excellent and moving poem Denys.
You start off thinking it’s just about another oft-sung chant, one we personally heard a lot last season throughout our second relegation in a row here at Forest Green(FGR) ! I always love poems where you think they are saying one thing and then they suddenly pull you deeper to somewhere or something else else.
I’m currently helping in a local school for FGR in a voluntary capacity using football to help young students with reading. At an upcoming session we will tackle racism, just like we did in workshops at football schools and grounds when we first started this site 24 years ago. I’m gonna try and weave your poem into a session.
We’ve added it to the Anti- Racism/Kick It Out section under Crispin’s Corner.
Best C
See in context
26th November 2024 at 1:59 pm
Great poem and great to see you back Wyn.
Don’t leave it so long next time my friend!
More please.
See in context
13th September 2024 at 6:14 pm
Welcome to Football Poets Beth
Great evocative poem Beth….
More please !
Haiku always welcome.
Hope we (FGR) get to play you again soon
Best
Crispin
See in context
26th July 2024 at 6:25 pm
Great poem Mike Bartram. Eddie was a legend, affectionately known in Liverpool as, “the first hooligan.” Even the hoolies were well dressed in those days. The amazing thing was he was only 26 when that picture was taken. He’d played for Everton youth team and was well known to the players. He never got arrested. They threw him out and he climbed back in, just in time for Derek Temples winner.
I used the picture of him being tackled to the ground on the front cover of my book, “Once Upon a rhyme in Football.” It’s worth looking on youtube and finding the re-enactment of the Wembley scene. Frank Skinner and Baddiel went around to Eddies home in the 1990’s and acted it out on the green outside. It’s hilarious, especially all the effort they put in to get Eddie sober enough to shoot the scene.
See in context